


A cold embrace

by adevilkissedme



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 08:43:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15578073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adevilkissedme/pseuds/adevilkissedme
Summary: Francis Abernathy reflects on his first panic attack.Please, be careful, themes such as murder, death, abuse and incest are touched, just like in the book.





	A cold embrace

**Author's Note:**

> Francis is, maybe, my favorite character in TSH. Though I can't do justice to Donna Tratt's novel or her style --I lack the knowledge of English to do so, as it's not my first language-- the scene when Francis calls Richard after having a panic attack caught my eye. I wanted to tell it from another point of view, and try to expand the story a little through another character, since as we all know, Richard just tells us some things.  
> I would love to give a try to Camila's point of view because, though I love her, we really see so little of her in the novel (thanks, Richard).   
> I hope you enjoy this humble piece and any feedback is very welcome.
> 
> Disclaimer: all of the characters belong to Donna Tratt.

> **“Tell me how all of this, and love too, will ruin us” Richard Siken from his poem Scheherezade.**

 

 

 

I was dying. My chest ached, my arm was completely numb and there was a strange pressure on my lungs. It could only be a heart attack. I could see the news: me, such a young rich man with such a bright future ahead dying alone in my apartment, a little drunk on tranquilizers. They would find my body quietly lying on bed, as some kind of redhead Marilyn Monroe.

They would say _oh poor thing, he was gone too soon_. I could see it, my corpse, my mother crying, a bourbon in her hand. I could see Henry staring at me from across the room with his icy eyes, his inextricable expression. I could see Bunny, a pale, muddy ghost laughing at me as I helplessly stared at my own dead body.

The funeral, the crying, the… Then, an even more paralyzing thought came to my head. What if no one would mourn me? What if, even after dying, my death and funeral would be a circus, a pathetic and shameful show as was Bunny’s? Would anyone miss me? I bet no one would. I bet the closest thing to sympathy Henry would show was a slightly, elegantly raised eyebrow. _No_. I told myself _someone_ would be sorry. _Anyone_. Maybe Julian? Yes, Julian would be sorry. And Camila would raise a drink for me in the solitude of her bedroom. And what about Chares? Something, a voice in the back of my head, started talking to me about how glad Charles would be that I was found dead. They probably wouldn’t find me for days. How many days? Three, the time it took for people to notice Bunny was gone? Would my corpse be decomposing by then? Would I at least have a pretty cadaver?

The pain on my chest and arm was joined by the lack of oxygen. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move. I felt dizzy, confused and terribly scared. I could only see all the possibilities for my certain death. I saw them laughing, Richard silently shrugging, my mother quickly moving on, my grandparents simply glaring at my tomb with their cold eyes…

I couldn’t stop my stream of thoughts. They were flowing wild, and though a part of me knew it was irrational, I couldn’t stop all those fears, rational and irrational from flooding my brain. I tried an old trick: _think in French_ , I told myself _. It has always helped you calm down_. But it didn’t. I suddenly discovered a thousand gruesome French words, and all the memories from my days in Switzerland hit me with the force of lightning, making me only feel worse.

I was sweating but feeling a paralyzing coldness extend through my muscles, like some freezing embrace. _So this is what it feels like_ , I thought. _Dying hurts much more than I thought_. I was tempted to let it go, to let that cold consume me, only so the pain would ease. But a part of me still fought for air and told me to breathe in and out, as calmly as possible. I have never been more frightened than that night.

Slowly, I managed to finally control my breathing, the pain started easing, just as the cold and numbness. I could move and breathe better, but my heart was still racing so fast I thought it was impossible it didn’t stop at any given moment. Scared to death and breathless, my first reflex was picking up the phone. But who could I call? My mind raced, and I marked the number almost before I understood what I was doing.

A girl answered, someone I did not expect. I panicked, my heart beating even faster. I don’t know what I said, I can barely remember anything about that particular moment, only that the minutes before Richard finally picked up the phone seemed like an eternity. One thing I do remember, I managed to sound much more calmed than I was. My voice felt like someone else’s.

“Richard, I’m having a heart attack. I’m dying.”

“What?” a second of silence that killed me, a yawn from Richard in the background. “No, Francis, listen, you are not dying.”

“I have all the symptoms. I can’t breathe.” My voice raised, and cracked. I couldn’t control it anymore.

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Come and take me to the hospital.” I answered, without thinking.

“Alright, listen, I’m calling an ambulance and—”

“No. Not an ambulance. You come and take me to the hospital.” Panic took over me. Ambulances reminded me of terrible things. And if I had to wait much longer, then I would certainly die. That was my first thought but years later, reflecting on this moment, I realized what triggered my response at the suggestion was the irrational feeling of being alone, or worse, being surrounded by strangers.

There was silence, some babbling in the background. I felt my heart skip a beat, then another. It seemed as if it had stopped for a whole second. I swallowed, my eyes full of tears and my voice barely useful. “Please. I’m feel very bad. Will you come, Richard? I’m so scared.” A sigh, more words.

“I’m on my way.” When I hang up, I felt slightly better, and in the time that took Richard to come home –which he did very fast, by the way— the pain in my arm and pressure in my chest were receding slowly. I needed to hear someone’s voice, a familiar voice. Those four words _I’m on my way_ had almost an instant effect. I still felt terrible, I still couldn’t focus my thoughts and stop the terrible premonitions from coming, but breathing got easier, and the fear slowly started fading.

Richard, I thought, good old Richard would help me. It was a terrible experience. I hated being in the hospital. I felt small and ridiculous as I comprehended it wasn’t a heart attack. When Richard took me back home again, I desperately wanted him to stay. I wanted to cry and beg him, I would have fallen to my knees and kissed his feet just for him to stay. I was starving for a caress, for some human heat. The coldness I couldn’t explain that had almost taken over me was still there, alive, burning with its infinite iciness. I craved his embrace and I feared being alone more than any other thing. I felt as if I had pick up my own lose pieces and they were too heavy to carry. When Richard left me, I got into the bathtub. Fresh water cleanses you, or so they say. I embraced myself and cried until my eyes went dry.

 

 

……

 

 

That was my first panic attack, the first of many. When I think of it, I always go back in time and see all the things that happened those days right before my eyes as if it was a film, a story happening to someone else: Bunny’s funeral, the police; Charles angrily yelling me to leave him alone the morning after we had sex, drunk on murder; Bunny’s death; that blood on my hands that was not my own; the bacchanal. It all comes back to me, just as an old lover, mistreated by life and time would. We consume each other. I swim in those memories, still vivid and yet strangely distant, as a miserable who revolts in his grief. In exchange, these thoughts, like living things, cut me with blades sharper than knives, burn me deeper than a fire would.

As for what exactly triggered that very first panic attack, I have never known. I was a little high on tranquilizers, half-sleeping when it suddenly struck me harder than the most fearsome of Jupiter’s bolts.

 

Looking back, I think it had to do with the fact that I didn’t feel guilty for Bunny’s murder, one who I once called friend. Actually, I quite thought he deserved it. See, the truth is Bunny and I were never too close. I liked him sometimes and I don’t think he was a particularly bad person but how can one truly like a person who constantly attacks oneself noting traits that one cannot change, no matter what? I have always liked men. I love men. Bunny knew it, and I never hid it. But, oh, surely he found it disgusting –at least until the time for asking for money came, of course.

Murder, I had been told my whole life, was something terrible. The biggest sin, the ultimate crime. All rage from Heaven and Hell would hit anyone involved, with the fury of the one and only God for killing one of your fellow men. Bullshit.

When the thing happened, I didn’t feel even slightly sorry. And that, actually, terrified me.

I had killed a man in cold blood, and another one in a moment of collective madness. I had participated in two brutal crimes and I didn’t feel anything about it. I have never cared too much about morals, but those days I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror without being repulsed. I hated my reflection, I hated the consequences, I hated the fact that I didn’t regret the crime, but only the situation it lead us to. The crimes I had committed were, in my heart, as forgettable as killing an obnoxious fly. And that, that lack of remorse, that absence of repent was what truly terrified me. _What kind of person am I?_ I asked my reflection. Here is the truth: I couldn’t have cared less about the victims. That was the thing I hated, the one that disgusted me. Not the crime itself, not myself really, but the fact that I didn’t feel guilty. I felt guilty for _not_ feeling guilty. It was the kind of culpability that comes when you know you have done wrong but you don’t feel like you did wrong.

Henry was starting to give me concerned, quiet looks when we were alone. I could tell what he was thinking, that my guilt complex was too big, that my fear and nerves were consuming me and that it was dangerous. He didn’t understand that the pure dread of the possibility of being caught, along with the total absence of regret, plus the way Henry was starting to look at me and the feeling that I couldn’t tell anyone my fears and thoughts were driving me insane.

Naturally, the others reacted in diverse ways. Richard was, at first, horrified by what we did. I could see it in his eyes, in the way he spoke and moved. He liked Bunny much more than I --or at that point any of us-- did. I think, to a point, Richard considered Bunny a real friend. However, he quickly entered a dozed state that shielded him from all other things happening among us. He was willingly blind to most things.

On the other hand, Camila entered a calmed and strangely heavenly state, as if a huge weight was taken off her shoulders and unlike me, that weight wasn’t even heavier than before. Those days, I realized that she was much more similar to Henty than I ever thought. He could obviously see the usefulness in the whole situation. For him, killing Bunny was only logical and he acted exactly as it was expected of him. So did Camila. She had always been very kind and caring, very feminine I guess one could say. But after the incident and specially after the funeral, she began showing a different face, a much more cold-blooded and ruthless one that disturbed me almost as much as my lack of guilt.

But Charles, my dear Charles… He was a whole different thing. Regret (though maybe not guilt or remorse) was devouring him. Maybe it was because of his own hesitations while we conspired against Bunny, hesitations that came from his own moral judgement –which he obviously didn’t share with his sister. Maybe it was because of the way he had to face the police and Marion, or because he liked Bunny much more than I ever thought –which I doubted. The thing is it was undeniable that the situation was affecting him on a much greater level than the rest of us. He was suffering in a way I couldn’t even comprehend and all the times I tried comforting him, he turned me away with hurting words and hateful gazes. I always suspected he only entered the murder club because he would never let Camila do it alone.

 

At this point, I believed Camila to be the only one holding us together. Camila, who cut off Charles’ doubts before the point of no return. Camila, who perfectly understood Henry in a way none of us could and prevented a massive fallout between him and her brother. Camila who had Richard under her thumb with just the hint of a smile. She was the one to intermediate not only between Charles and Henry, but also between Henry and me, me and Charles and Henry and Richard. Like a trapeze artist, she was constantly walking the thin string that held us together and graciously maintained our delicate balance. Henry knew this. He knew that she was the key piece of the puzzle, the one holding the power behind shadows. Yes, Henry was always our mastermind, the unofficial but unarguable leader. But he could have never managed us if it wasn’t for Camila. He didn’t know how to deal with people and everything would have gone to hell much earlier if it wasn’t for Camila’s diplomatic juggling. And that cost her much more than I dare conjecture.

The fact that Henry and Camila were getting closer was apparent. I understood it, but at the same time I knew how dangerous it was. You slightly move a card, the whole house falls down, isn’t that the joke?

 

I thought the situation would be an opportunity for us all to get closer, an opportunity for me to get closer to Charles. A chance to finally reach out when he was sober, to hold him tight and let him cry on my shoulder, stroking his hair, to show him I had been there always, waiting. A chance for Charles’ to finally acknowledge my existence. Of course, this never happened. I always blamed his goddammed obsession with her, but who knows at this point.

You know, love is a thing that willingly takes you, chews you, rips you apart, eats you alive and spits you out bleeding, your mind shattered, your heart forever damaged and then gives you an ungrateful look and tells you you’re a fool for letting it stab you in the back.

 

Those days, I thought a lot about the bacchanal. I forgot most of it, the more time that passed by, the more I forgot. The memories of it have always been blurry, misty. I only have flashes of what happened that night, but there’s no possible way to arrange those memories or make any sense out of it. However, there’s is one image that’s crystal clear in my mind: Charles’ steel blue eyes piercing me, his teeth pressing the line of Camila’s neck, stripping her of those robes that were whiter than fresh snow. Then the robes turned red and all I can remember is blood flowing like a river of wine.

 

 

……

 

 

The night before my first panic attack, my phone rang at one forty a.m. It woke me up. When I answered, there was no sound coming from the phone. My mind was dizzy from the sleeping pills, so I repeated “yes?” I heard someone swallowing and a heavy and shaky breath. I sat up, thinking it could only be Charles, drunk and in some kind of trouble. But the voice was not his.

“Francis,” she started saying.

I rubbed my eyes, confused, my eyes going to the clock.

“Camila?” she said something, but she was speaking so softly I couldn’t hear her. “What’s wrong?”

“Can I stay in your place tonight?” she repeated. I frowned, what was going on?

“Sure. Where are you?”

“Home. Charles is very drunk and he is sleeping. I can’t sleep and I need some company. Francis, are you still there?” her voice sounded broken, somewhat desperate. I immediately worried.

“Sure. I’ll pick you up in five minutes just—”

“Don’t,” she cut me. “I’ll go there.”

“Milly, you can’t walk alone at night, what if—”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She hung up before I could add anything else. She arrived ten minutes later, and I realized she must have called from somewhere other than her home, otherwise, she would have needed to run to go to my house that fast, and since she didn’t look as if she had just done a great physical effort, I rejected the possibility.

When I opened the door, I saw her eyes were swollen, her lips dry, her hair messy. She quietly stared at me, as if she was about to crumble right in front of me. I had never seen her in such state and it shocked me beyond telling. From the way she moved, I could tell she had had more than one drink.

“Can you please,” her voice completely broke, she stared to the floor “hold me?” I automatically opened my arms to welcome her body. Under all the layers of cloth, I could tell she had lost much weight. I held her tightly, striking her hair and telling her everything was ok, and stood there. I didn’t move, not even for closing the door. After a moment, she sniffed and though her eyes were almost completely dry, she had obviously cried while I embraced her. I closed the door as she sat down in the sofa. I asked her if she wanted something to drink and started preparing tea. When I came back, she had almost recovered her composure.

“What’s wrong, Camila?” I asked, after a long silence, as she poured more and more sugar on her tea –which she never did.

“I can’t stand it anymore, Francis.” She said, quietly, her eyes fixed in the cup she held. “I really can’t.”

“This is a very difficult situation but—” she shook her head.

“It’s not about that. It’s about Charles. I really… I really can’t hold him back anymore.” I frowned, feeling my heartbeat in my temples.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I can’t reason with him anymore. He is so angry. He drinks all day, then yells at me and everything is a mess I—” she had to stop and breathe slowly before speaking again. Her hands were shaking. “I don’t know what to do anymore. He _frightens_ _me_ , Francis. I am terrified of him.” Fear and concern were growing in my chest. I tried to sound relaxed, to smile a little so I could calm her down.

“You know that he is really irascible when he drinks. I’m sure when all this ends, he will get back to normal.” She shook her head. I could tell how hard she was fighting tears from flowing.

“This is unlike before. You know, after the bacchanal, he acted like this for some weeks. He would drink too much at night, then get angry for no reason, but it slowly passed. He apologized everyday, he looked at me and told me ‘ _Milly, baby, I’m sorry, I promise it won’t happen again. I’m so sorry_ ’. But now it’s different, it’s…”

“He’s going through a lot, Camila. You need to understand. I’m sure he really is sorry, I’m sure he regrets when he is sober.” She laughed, but it was more like a moan.

“He hardly gets sober anymore.” A moment of silence. Her eyes rose to meet mine. She had the exact same eyes as Charles and they hit me in a way it almost physically hurt. “You really don’t understand, don’t you?” my heart broke when she said that. She asked me for a cigarette, but she barely smoked. “The other day he threw a crystal glass at me. Had he been a little less drunk, he would have hit me in the head. He says awful things, Francis, you can’t even imagine. I can’t even look at Henry, or even at you anymore if I don’t want him yelling at me once we’re home. Of course, when he finally is sober (which is rarer every time) he kisses me and tells me he is sorry but these last three days he doesn’t even care faking that anymore. He just grabs me and treats me—” her voice soothed. “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t hold him back. I can’t help him, he doesn’t want to be helped. I can’t stand it anymore.”

Camila kept on, incoherently talking about the most recent fights, tears fighting to come down her face. As she described a situation that can only be comparable to hell, a new fear invaded me as I realized what those words meant. If Camila couldn’t calm Charles down, no one could. And that meant we were all in danger. If not even her could pacify him, the balance was broken. The end was near. She was shaking her head, confusedly babbling, trying to excuse herself, trying to explain something.

“Camila, listen to me,” I said, though she kept muttering. “Camila!” she closed her mouth, sniffed and started following my instructions (breathe in, focus on your breath… ) until she calmed down. “Do you understand what this means?” I asked, slowly. She stared at her hands, the cigarette consumed in her fingers. “If you can’t do it, no one can. We need you. For your own good. Alright?” She nodded, stiffly, then bit her lip.

“But—I don’t think I have the strength, Francis."

“Listen, you are the bravest girl I’ve ever met. Now I need you – _we_ need you—to endure it a little longer. I know it’s hard, I know you don’t deserve this. But it’s the only way. If Henry learns this, we will all be fucked again. You understand that, don’t you?” she sighed.

“Yes.”

“Good girl.” I smiled at her, holding her hands. “You will do great and this will be over soon. I promise. I know Charles will get back to normal and be the one we love.”

“Do you really believe that or do you desperately want to believe it?” I didn’t answer. She drank her tea quietly. “I’m so tired.”

“Why don’t we go to sleep? I’m sure everything will look a bit brighter tomorrow.” Camila nodded and I took her to my bed. She asked me to sleep with her, she said she needed someone. I could relate to that. She instantly fell asleep as I laid beside her.

The things Camila told me that night— I always had suspicions that their situation wasn’t nearly as ideal as it seemed. This was much worse than I could expect. I didn’t sleep all night thinking about Charles. I felt his lips against my skin, the firm grip of his hands on my hips, the way he trembled when he was too aroused. All those things that I felt so clearly as if he was there, doing it at that very moment, started mixing with images of Camila crying, broken glass, a tight grab turning into a bruise, his hands, the same hands that caressed so softly, hitting Camila and his mouth, that gorgeous mouth, spitting anger and uttering the most disgusting things imaginable.

 

I need to say that these thoughts were unbearable for me so I decided to stay as blind as possible about the whole situation. There wasn’t much I could do but to this day, I still wonder, had I done something, anything, would things be different now? Would Henry still be alive and wouldn’t Charles be dead in life? We will never know.

 

Camila left the next morning. After that day, we didn’t speak again until Henry’s suicide. Once she left, I remember having an unexplainable and overwhelming feeling of loneliness. That loneliness has accompanied me ever since.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it and I would love to read your thoughts, so please, consider leaving a comment. Constructive criticism is very welcome! Also, please, please, please, let me know if you find any part that is worded oddly or otherwise incorrectly uses English so I can learn for the next time.


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